


Your Hand In Mine

by 221Beez



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, SO FLUFFY, figuring out the emotions thing, going out together is, only a little though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Beez/pseuds/221Beez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or "The One Where The Big Adventure Just Happens To Be A Trip To Get Milk"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"The remark was quick and angry, the passing twenty-something who said the words already yards away by the time John could react. Or not react, depending on one’s definition. He froze completely, his whole body tensing like one of the strings on Sherlock’s violin. His breathing pick up and become ragged and the world was shrinking into a red haze that felt like having a bomb strapped to his chest. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hand In Mine

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to be an itty bitty drabble to see if I can even write at all. It grew legs and got away from me. Not beta'd. Title taken from the Explosions in the Sky song! Enjoy! :)

      As they step out of the flat, hand casually in hand, John Watson came to the revelation that this is not sending him into a crisis. At all. He had expected their first outing as ..John’s mind blanks.

   What were they? Boyfriends? Partners? More than fuck buddies, they had established that through lumpy throats and furious blushing not twenty- four hours before. He decided to ask Sherlock point blank later. He could do that now that they were..whatever they were.

   Anyway. He had expected their first outing (can a quick walk to get milk be counted as an “outing?” He decided it didn’t matter.) as _whatever they were_ to be all hammering hearts and internal crises of sexuality. Instead, it was..nice. Very, actually. The day was warm and clear, a Londoner’s dream, and though it had only been one long and –John grinned- sleepless night since they had made _this_ a thing, John felt good, walking hand in hand with Sherlock. And not a little bit proud of himself for not having internal fits.

    Sherlock’s hand tightened around his briefly as they strolled, a small squeeze in the face of the world. The world which seemed, for now, to be completely disinterested in John and his tall, dark companion. John’s heart, he was not embarrassed to admit, fluttered infinitesimally and  he dared a glance at his friend. He was caught off guard by the eyes staring back at him.  The image of forests and the dark, lush life that can be found deep inside of them filled his mind. That and lizards. Christ. He really was way too far gone. And a shit poet on top of it. But for all of it, when Sherlock looked at him this way, like John had caused him to open his ridiculously brilliant eyes for the first time, John was okay with being just a bit besotted. He became aware of himself slowing down and leaning slightly out and upward, straining for -

 

“Fucking poofters.”

 

    The remark was quick and angry, the passing twenty-something who said the words already yards away by the time John could react. Or not react, depending on one’s definition. He froze completely, his whole body tensing like one of the strings on Sherlock’s violin. His breathing pick up and become ragged and the world was shrinking into a red haze that felt like having a bomb strapped to his chest.

 

“John. _John. JOHN._ ”

 

    John snapped back to himself with Sherlock a bit too close to his face to be strictly comfortable. The younger man looked outright panicked. They are stopped in the middle of the walk a block away from the market, both of John’s hands in his detective’s as they faced each other. Sherlock’s thumbs were stroking John’s wrists in a manner that John could tell was _intended_ to be soothing but actually came across as terrified.

 

“John, it’s okay,” Sherlock’s voice was low and rough and speaking almost to quickly to be understood.

 “Er.. I’m here. For..you. But you know that. We can go home directly and forget the milk. When I said we could wait to make this public until you’re ready, I meant that. Or not. We could not make it public at all. I understand. Phenylethylamine, dopamine, norepinephrine, endorphins, oxytocin. They’re making you..er, me… _us_ feel..things. This doesn’t have to be anything at all, really. We could-“

 

    Before John could really begin to respond to Sherlock’s sudden verbose episode, he became aware that the slightly too cold hands he was holding were being pried away from him and were, he could guess, about to be either shoved in the pockets of said lond-winded detective or put to use making agitated gestures as he spoke. And, really, couldn’t have that, now could he? He clamped his fists down hard on the Sherock’s hands.

 "OW, John. What the _hell_ was th-“

“ _Sherlock.”_

 

    Sherlock’s eyes met his again, pulled away from the point they had been fixed on, somewhere slightly above John’s left shoulder. This broke John’s heart slightly. Sherlock hadn’t avoided eye contact with him since before St. Bart’s. To top it off, when he could properly look at Sherlock’s face he saw all too easily the pain and terrible fear of rejection that was flitting about somewhere just behind the graybluegreen of his eyes. He looked like nothing so much as a little boy.

 

“Sherlock, I am _fine_. I was shocked, is all.”

 

“Really, John, I am infatuated, not insensate.”

 

   Sherlock’s hands were twitching in John’s now, reminding him of a cat’s tale when it has been goaded for too long. He sighed and tried again.

 

“Alright, I was angry. And hurt. And yes, okay, even slightly embarrassed.” Sherlock’s face was closing off too quickly now, folding in on itself, and John could feel himself losing the chance to make him understand. “Not of you, Sherlock. Not of _us._ I had a stupid gut reaction due to thirty years of bloody conditioning. Sherlock, _look at me_ , damn you. I am happy. You _make me_ happy. I was so angry,” he explains,” because I _hate_ that anyone in the world thinks that _this_ is wrong. Because it’s not. It’s good and perfect and I _love_ this. Love _you.”_

   They hadn’t said those words yet, and as he saw the look that came _slamming_ onto Sherlock’s face like a high-speed wreck, John wondered if he had been wrong to say them now. They were, he decided, absolutely true. Not being able to fathom life without someone meant either love or hopeless addiction, and _John_ wasn’t the one with the addictive personality here. He was still analyzing the socially appropriate timing of love declarations and what that look on Sherlock’s face was meant to convey when Sherlock’s lips, new and yet familiar, slightly chapped, were pressed firmly against his own. The kiss was good and better and _perfect_ and even though the feeling of an undoubtedly masculine jaw was still slightly foreign to John, he found that he was completely capable of adjusting to it when his hand drifted up to Sherlock’s face and just _held him_ there until they could no longer do without oxygen. Even then, they stayed forehead to forehead and nose to nose, both smiling slightly as they caught breath.

         It occurred to John that Sherlock may still need a bit before he made any declarations of his own. After all, he had been doing the vast majority of the blushing and curt answers when John had confronted him with his feelings the morning before. It was all fine, John thought lazily, his mind running slowly for the first time since they had stepped out of the flat. It was all fine. He knew what Sherlock felt. It was made more than clear in the way that Sherlock was now standing, eyes closed and so close that he and John were sharing the same air, and looking for all the world like he couldn’t believe this was all real. ‘However improbable’ John thought and chuckled quietly. Sherlock was about to ask what was funny when they heard a young mother, passing by where they were still immobile on the sidewalk.

   There was undoubtedly a fond warmth  in her voice when she murmured to her husband, 

 

“Oh, now, look, love. Don’t they look happy?”

 

Sherlock and John both huffed quiet laughs, but showed no signs of moving.

It was fine.

It was all fine.      


End file.
